


playing with your food

by chainsaw_cowboy



Series: MCYT Oneshots of Various Content [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hate Crimes, Homophobia, I watched like three wes anderson movies before writing this, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Late Night Conversations, Light Angst, M/M, Real names used, Sexual Content, Smoking, Strangers to Lovers, Suicide Attempt, sorry if dream gets lowkey manic pixie 'dream' girl on you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29373582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainsaw_cowboy/pseuds/chainsaw_cowboy
Summary: After being accidentally outed to his roommates and subsequently thrown out, George is stuck. Newly homeless, family thousands of miles away, and not a single friend in the whole city, George decides to head to a lonely bridge in the loneliest part of town to end his own life. Before he could throw himself off the edge, George makes bizarre conversation with an even more bizarre stranger.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: MCYT Oneshots of Various Content [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2157684
Comments: 6
Kudos: 76





	playing with your food

**Author's Note:**

> this fic moves a little faster than my others, going from one to one hundred very quickly. sorry about that! adding this to a collection of mcyt oneshots.  
> i used real names for this one, they seem more fitting for the content.

"It's the end of the line..."

"You reckon you can wait five minutes to throw yourself off of this bridge? I want to finish my cigarette first."

George jumped at the sound that came from his left. He saw the shape of a man, tall, much taller than George if he were to get up off his elevated ledge. The only color he could see was the red at the tip of his cigarette. The burnt out street lamp must have obstructed him from his peripheral vision when he had sat down past the guard rail of that concrete bridge. Rain beat down on the ground and made it all the much harder to see. The moon's cool, refreshing rays were nowhere to be seen, the closest thing resembling it was the bitter cold of crashing water droplets.

"Who are you?" He held a miraculously lit cigarette between his fingers, his face blended in with the shadows. He wasn't intimidating, he wore pants that were trimmed to be too short for him, he was wide shouldered sure- but he was lean for someone resembling a muscular type, it looked nearly comical how his gangly limbs crossed over each other. His hands were longer than they were thick and effeminate as they balanced the cigarette between his fingers. His hands took a nearly cramped up position despite his laid-back demeanor. George noted the hitchhiker's thumb.

"That's an awfully good way to avoid answering my question, asking another." He sounded amused, George still couldn't make out the smoker's face.

"You a traveler?" George asked. The smoker chuckled and brought his cigarette up to his lips, froze, and brought it back down, not even bothering to take a puff.

"Wow you're a natural!" He exclaimed and placed the cigarette back against his lips, actually taking a puff of it. The end of the impossibly lit cigarette brightened, but the feeble glow was not enough to show George anything past a stray freckle on his skin. "Notice your eyes have made acquaintance with my hands." He remarked.

"You talk weird." George tore his eyes away from his hands and looked back forward, leaving the smoker back in his peripheral vision.

"Says a Brit' about to throw himself off of an all American bridge with very little to say," the smoker reminisced, "wouldn't you be happier doing it somewhere your country didn't lose? Wouldn't you want to say more before your free trial on life ends? You're bad at three things so far, answering questions, staying on topic, and avoiding hypocrisy, so you really need to prove yourself now."

"You trying to be all cute by insulting me isn't helping you keep me from doing it." George said, The smoker snickered.

"What made you decide to come here tonight?" He asked, George rolled his eyes and turned around so his back faced the other man. The street was awfully empty for a Friday night in New York, but yet again, George did pick the loneliest of streets to accompany him in his final moments. Hence, his surprise when he heard the smoker's voice.

The funny thing is, despite the title in George’s head, the smoker didn't sound like he committed himself to a cigarette every night. If anything, his voice was smooth with deep inflection. Don't get him wrong, the smoker was still three things to George; young, snarky as all hell, and indeed, a smoker.

"You used my trick." George uttered out, offended by the blatant plagiarism.

"But I'll have you know why…" George got over it quickly and took a deep breath. "I'm gay."

"You're gonna let yourself aboard the cruise liner, destination afterlife because you're a queer?" He asked, confused. George turned himself around, a full 180° to face him again. That's when the smoker let the miraculously lit cigarette fall from his hands and in front of his foot, anr raised his toe like the cracked entrance to a wine cellar. It rolled unceremoniously underneath his tattered rubber sole, and he crushed it with as little care as he did drop it. He pushed himself forward and ever-so-slightly into the light. His face still hidden by the shade of his hoodie, much to George’s disappointment. Much to George’s surprise though, was when he stepped up right over to the ledge with his own long legs, and sat down right next to him.

"If you plan on killing yourself for being gay, I might as well sit down right by you." Clay faced the rushing, abyssal edge of the bridge.

George took this as a hint to mirror his actions, and turned around again, to face the ledge he was about to jump off of.

"You're gay too? How did you manage?" George asked with bewilderment, like a little boy finding out about dinosaurs for the very first time.

"Wow, you don't even ask for a name before assailing, dare I say assaulting me with questions?"

"That's it, I'm jumping." George starts to stand up, and Clay's grip rushes to his wrist.

"Don't! I'll stop giving you shit, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" George begrudgingly sits back down. His hand never leaves his wrist. There goes his leverage.

"I'm impressed with your grip strength, must spend a lot of time... gripping. What do people call you?" George attempts to gently tug his hand away from his shadowy friend's steel grip.

"Clay, and might I say, it's a beautiful night but I can't quite give the moon all my attention when you're here. I would suggest you arise from this ledge and kill the moon- which looks upon you enviously. You see the moon may be pretty from afar, but up closely her pale is sickening. Romeo and Juliet, are you familiar?" The rain had stopped, hell even the clouds had cleared and now the moon lent its silver rays to the couple sitting on the bridge.

"I am familiar with the play every teacher makes you read in year ten," George scoffed, "I don't feel like sleeping with you Clay," He was blunt about it to him, "I'm about to kill myself, I am not looking for a good time, if anything I'm looking for the most terrible time anyone has ever had."

George leans forward, getting comfortable but also uncomfortably close to the edge. "I'd like to see your face before considering it too."

Clay laughed a little, a kind of defeated laughter you hear genuinely very scarcely. "Well I tried, but I'll have you know I never had the chance with a pretty boy like you, even while he's having a suicidal meltdown," Clay slumped forward, "I am one ugly duckling."

"Hmm? How so, I believe that people are innocent until proven guilty, and so far all I've seen of your face was a single little spot. It must've been a freckle too, not big enough to be one ugly zit." George quipped, light reflecting off his skin, damp from the rain.

"Fond of freckles?" Clay asked. He thought about his last flatmate, Chester, he was a coltish ginger fellow with a face absolutely covered in freckles.

"They kicked me out of my flat you know, my flatmates." George began. "I don't even have a place to go besides off this ledge. I have no family for thousands of miles and no friends in this whole city."

"Well I don't think that's true," Clay said pensively. "Now, I'm not going to lie to you and go off on how we're friends, because on God you and I are as much strangers as you and those evil, evil roommates were." Clay tucked his hands into his hoodie's pocket.

"And your point…?" George didn't see it.

"Well my friend, what's your name, I told you mine but you didn't tell me yours. Etiquette my comrade, etiquette." a gust of wind seemed to misconstrue a single tuft of sandy hair from under Clay's hood for just a fraction of a moment.

"Blonde…" George mentally noted.

"I'm George, my name is George."

"Why how now young George-"

"You don't know how old I am."

"Shhh- let me quote Shakespeare in peace-" Clay shushed George, his tone remained light and breezy despite the interruption.

"I believe that we have the chance to be great friends. Look at how we got along just now, we didn't even know each other's names, yet instead of me talking you off this ledge, you somehow talked me onto it."

"What does this have to do with me getting kicked out of my flat?" George was still perplexed.

"I live in a group home for gay folks just like us. We got gay men, gay women, gay people of all variations, all of them flat-less as could be." Clay straightened his back, took his hands out of his pocket and leaned back on them.

"Last time I checked, I was told not to just waltz into stranger's homes." George spat, feeling a wave of bitterness wash over him.

"We aren't strangers George, strangers don't know each other's names." Clay turned to the left so he could speak closer to George’s ear.

"Strangers don't know why other strangers are left out on the streets like little puppies." Clay chuckled, he had the audacity to chuckle. "Strangers don't get this close to the edge together George." His hand ghosted over his shoulder, but withdrew, a fleeting touch.

"But strangers see each other's faces, don't they Clay?" George trained his eyes on the darkened horizon, refusing to acknowledge the person filling the place to his left.

"See, that makes us even less like strangers!"

The silence was sickeningly thick, like a thick coat of molasses were spread over the two, discouraging any movement or sound. George broke the surface after minutes of blank faced staring into the treacherous waters below.

"Fine. I'll get off the ledge." George crumbled.

"Why the change of heart?" Clay asked, the twinge of amusement in his voice never leaving.

"I'll get off this ledge, but only if we do that again."

"Do what again?" Clay's heart sank, the faint glow of amusement flickered.

"Become strangers. You forget this ledge, my name, everything about me up to this moment." George demanded, authoritatively, like a barked order, an open palm, and Clay was more than happy to submit to his terms, take the order, and slide whatever George demanded into that open palm for some unknown reason.

Then he reached up to his hood and ripped it down, in an act of defiance His face was revealed in the light. Clay wasn't exactly wrong about the ugly duckling comment. He was more likely than not considered the ugly duckling, as a child though. George could imagine the ghost of his awkward childhood in his features, but Clay was by no means unattractive.

His nose had a slight crook to it, the bridge slightly curved beneath the eye. His face was covered in freckles, and his deep-set eyes contained a hazel hue. His jawline was relatively strong but his browline… less so. His cheekbones were nothing to fawn over, relatively low, one sunken. What really enchanted George was his mouth, wide and upturned, and amused. Here he was, Clayton What's-His-Lastname, sitting down with a man who was about to kill himself and he was smiling. It was so sickeningly optimistic, so- foolish. Clay was a fool, quoting "Romeo and Juliet" like a lovestruck teenager, smiling, joking, smoking with men about to throw themselves off bridges, calling himself an 'ugly duckling' because he is a hair away from perfect.

"You don't look half bad." George doesn't want to say 'what are you doing! you're hot!' to Clay, they were virtually strangers. "Maybe if we weren't strangers I'd consider entertaining you on a date." George teased.

"Call me selfish, but I reckon you should walk over to my car with me so I could drive you home, and perhaps show you off- much to my roommate's chagrin."

"Being perfectly honest with you, I wasn't planning on getting in your car, but I like that word you used, chagrin, so I'll go with you Mr. Stranger." George shifted his weight around and quickly threw himself over the ledge and onto the concrete paved sidewalk of the overpass. Clay slowly shimmied around and their eyes met, not just for a heart-beat's moment. He felt something bubble inside of him.

"We can't be strangers again George." Clay grinned. George frowned.

"Why not?"

"Well you saw my face, it's in your brain forever now- like a popcorn kernel at the back of your throat." George held out his hand to help Clay down from the ledge. "There's no going back."

Clay took his hand and jumped down.

"I guess there isn't." George tore his hand away and looked at Clay expectantly. He began his walk down the street.

"So are you going to forget me George?" George caught up with him quickly.

"I don’t think so Clay."

"You aren't the forgettable type, if you weren't here right now, I wouldn't be walking to your car, or anywhere." George said matter-of-factly. His face had begun to dry out along with his hair, no longer damp and flat. They continued to walk.

"You asked how I managed- being gay, right?" Clay brought the old topic back up on the idle stroll.

"Yeah, I tried to ignore it all, just focus on women, but I couldn't. My flatmate caught me while I was…" George thought back to the night earlier, the phone sexline, his flatmate walking in on him, pants discarded and sucking on his fingers for the pleasure of the man on the other line. What was up with that anyways? Wasn't George paying him to give him a good time, not vice versa? "...Indecent…"

"I grew up in Florida, and I figured it out when I was around fifteen," Clay began his story, "and I decided to make it this big secret, I told nobody, not a soul. I had this boyfriend, Danny, we were both on the swim team. One day, his father caught us while we were… y'know and Danny wanted to prove to his dad that it meant nothing." George clung onto every word.

"So he beat my face in." Clay admitted. "He used one of his swimming trophies that I helped him win and beat my face in until even the doctors were confused on what they had brought in when his poor mother saw what he was doing and what her husband was condoning." Clay took a deep, heavy breath.

"My family couldn't pay for the full reconstructive surgery, I still have a deviated septum and one of my cheekbones is sunken in. I refused to let him take away what I am, he might be able to change how I look, but he could never take away who I really was deep in my soul." Clay leered over George over his peripheral vision. "You can't let how other people think and do affect who you are on the inside."

George sighed and rubbed his eyes, some of the stress from earlier returning.

"You think something like that could happen to me?" George’s voice shook, but Clay shook his head.

"Well that depends, are you going to take what you can get or what you deserve? How are you going to value your presence and your relationships? Are you going to go off with someone who could hurt you like that?" Clay asked the question with a burning determination.

"I can't know someone's intention, what if it's someone I trust, or a complete stranger? You could be the next Jeffrey Dahmer for all I know." George listened closely after, their footsteps clapped down the empty street.

"I'm not the next Jeffrey Dahmer you can trust me on that one," Clay bit his bottom lip, "But you can't let the people who hate us take something so personal away from us. Being gay isn't all we have, but it’s still a part of us…" Clay drifted off.

"So being gay is kind of like having a liver? You can live without one, but the alternative sucks?" George said with an experimental tone. Clay nodded excitedly.

"Exactly! It would be like having one of those gross bags instead. You know, the Greeks said that the liver was where your emotions came from, not the heart." Clay quipped as they approached a squat brown car, an older car, not old enough to be cool and too old to be considered new. He unlocked the car on the passenger side, and before George could get inside, Clay wedged himself between George and the inside of his car. He stumbled over the passenger side and unlocked the driver's seat door. He got out, opened the driver's side, and sat down.

"Why the liver?" George asked. Clay shrugged.

"I don't know, why do we choose the heart?" He responded like George often did, with another question.

"The heart is the center of our bodies, it sends blood to every corner of our system, wouldn't it be nice for love to reach every part of us too?" George sat down in the passenger's seat and fiddled with the seat belt.

"That would be nice, but it’s unrealistic," they closed the doors in tandem, "why put such a burden on the busiest organ? Give the heart a break, let the liver do it." Clay puts the keys in the ignition, George watched the way his hands gripped the steering wheel with a burning admiration. How would his grip compare to his own? The car began to roll out of its parking spot

"I don't think 'do I make your liver flutter' will ever be sexy." George groaned, and Clay smirked.

"Is that a challenge?"

"It's not a challenge Clay."

"So if I were to stop the car right now, pull over, and you gave me five minutes to make your liver flutter, you would let me? I know damn well I can." Clay had started to pull over already. George smacked Clay's arm and pointed forward.

"I just said it wasn't a challenge, keep driving." George droned out, taciturn in his phrasing.

"I think it was a challenge." He didn't deviate from his path.

"Why are you like this?' George leaned back in his seat, exhausted.

"Like what George?" He pulled over.

"You second guess everything I say, it's demeaning." George crossed his arms and attempted to lean further back, craning his neck to let his head fall into a comfortable position.

"When I was younger, my mother would always yell at me for playing with my food, but I always did it." George groaned at the tangent. "I mean, food on the plate to food in my mouth was too clean of a transition, too monotonous, the process is so stupidly simple. One, two, just like that."

"Clay, where is this going? George closed his eyes.

"I'm getting there, Jesus," he took the keys out of the ignition, "it never made sense to me, and you don't make sense to me either George, you seem so simple, so one and two. I tell you to get off the bridge, and you do. one and two. It infuriates me and riles me up. I'm playing with my food George."

In a different world, George would have made a funny quip, he would have said "now you really sound like Jeffery Dahmer." In a different world, he would have bolted out of the car, but that is not this world.

"You- you want to-" George snapped his head back as he choked out the words. Clay leaned over the middle console of the car and pressed one hand to the side of George’s neck, long fingers wrapping around the back of it. His other pressed onto the side of George’s stomach over his blue windbreaker.

"Do you want me to keep playing with you?" He brought his forehead down to George’s and spoke slowly, the tip of his nose grazing his cheek, "do I make you squirm? Do I make your liver flutter perhaps?" He panted out.

"Fuck you…" George pressed his grip onto Clay's wrist and leaned forward, mouth slightly agape to meet Clay's. His partner enthusiastically mirrored his actions and pressed even further before pulling back and smiling.

"You see George, I would, but you told me you weren't interested in sleeping with me tonight." He snaked a hand underneath his shirt and pressed his own cold fingertips onto hot skin, George gasped at the stark sensation. He whined at the refusal to move forward.

"Then let's not sleep tonight." George wove his arms around Clay's back, and let him consume him.

**Author's Note:**

> there you go! sorry if dream is like- hella creepy at the end there. my brain went 'jeffery dahmer go brrrrr' and i couldn't get it out of my head.


End file.
